Entry 250 – Day 375

Dionus wants to kill them all. I can see it in his eyes, the way he relishes the thought of carrying out an assassination in Matasten. It isn’t about Matasten for him right now, any more than it is about the Daedra or liberating our oppressed Nantese friends. Dionus wants revenge.

The calm in him was shaken by seeing that young man skewered in Motasta. He hasn’t been fully himself since.

We are in agreement, however, that infiltrating Matasten would serve us well. I think that if I were to ask, he would just go do it on his own. There’s a different itch crawling the skin of my friend, one that cries for blood. Perhaps revenge is too simple to be his true motive. I think he needs the challenge.

The Batsu will be our best source of information in either case. I trust that they will know enough to gauge the likelihood of success should we approach Matasten.

Timber’s language skills are catching up to her blade. We need Inifra to translate less and less when talking to the girl, which is a blessing and a curse because her questions flow no less for the impediments of her second language. She wanted to know where I learned to fight. I told her about the Scourge, and about the many lessons that came after from all different corners of the world.

She told me she was jealous, though it took a minute or two to figure out that jealous was the word she sought. It was awkward talking about the Scourge in front of Salisir, and when she found out that Salisir had once been my teacher she insisted on a demonstration.

Not today, I told her.

Salisir watches whenever we train together. He spares few words for me, though I see that as a concession to me now, not an insult. He lets me keep my distance. I’m fine with that.

Balthandar has accepted Salisir’s presence easily enough. It’s the first time I’ve seen him lower his walls so quickly to someone for whom mine stand strong. It’s another call against my hatred of the man, the sense that I alone see him for what he is. Perhaps I see him in all the wrong ways, under lights that cast shadows only because of where I stand.

The shadows over Hembila have solidified, however. He doesn’t speak to us at all any more, though I wish his men would follow suit. Why I should care that Hembila would shut us out is beyond me, but I do. There’s something about a strong leader, a man who has earned the respect of his own people. The opinions of such men are always of considerably higher value than the rest.

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About the Author

Marceles na Tetrarch was born to Syltra and Tyrion in 1106 PA. A rising star among the Tetrarch, his career remained untarnished for nearly 15 years before he was condemned to exile in the failed state of the Nanten Kingdom. His crimes sent shockwaves throughout the Old Empire, and nearly ruined the Tetrarch's relationship with the High King. He writes now to exonerate his name - even as he approaches a certain death in the obscurity of the jungle.

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